


Come What May

by Talithax



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011), Mission: Impossible - Rogue Nation (2015)
Genre: Christmas, Hospitalization, Light Angst, M/M, POV First Person, gratuitous cat references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 04:17:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5525078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas Day and Ethan's hoping for a miracle</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come What May

**Author's Note:**

> ~ Narrated by Ethan & Self-beta'd.
> 
> ~ Christmas fic. Just... because these things have to be done. (That, and I've discovered that the only way guaranteed to get me to post is to write something for a specific date... Sad, but true)
> 
> ~ Wishing everyone an absolutely wonderful festive season and best of fortunes in the coming year!

=============  
Come What May  
by TalithaX  
=============

 

“Now, are you sure I can't tempt you?” 

The nurse, a well preserved middle aged woman with the kind of red coloured hair that can only come out of a bottle and laugh lines around her carefully made up hazel eyes, smiles encouragingly and, not for the first time this evening, brandishes the plate at me in the hope of – six time's a charm – me reaching for it. “I'm sure I've said this before, but it's actually pretty good, you know,” she continues, her smile not slipping in the slightest as I merely smile politely in response and make no move to take the plate from her. “Magdalena, you know Magdalena, she's the tiny little thing with the blonde plait down to her arse that works day shift, anyway, Magdalena made it herself from a recipe that she claims has been handed down through her family for generations.” Pausing to draw breath, the nurse, whose name I can neither remember nor read on her badge because it's currently covered up by a mass of gold tinsel that may or may not have once held the shape of a star, shrugs and glances down at the generous slice of Christmas cake on the plate. “To be perfectly honest with you, for all I know she could have got the damn recipe off Google. What I do know though, and you can take my word for it, is that it's good. Far better than any of that processed muck you get from the stores, anyway.”

“I'm sure it's lovely,” I reply, looking at the cake and its inch thick, brilliantly white Royal Icing that whether I particularly want to or not makes me think of my grandmother and the Christmas cakes she used to spend all of November making, “ but I...”

“Don't tell me, let me guess,” the nurse interrupts with both a roll of her eyes and a grin, “you couldn't possibly eat another thing. Yeah, yeah. If I'd actually come down in the last shower I might even believe you. As it is though? Nope. Not buying it. From what I heard you've hardly eaten anything all day.”

“Sorry, but I'm just not that hungry.” Shrugging, I take the plate from her, not because I've suddenly developed a hankering for the rich, dense looking Christmas cake on it but because I know it's the only way to see her on her way, and place it down on the bedside table. “Maybe later, though. Maybe I'll feel like it a little later.” 

“Maybe you might.” Nodding with evident satisfaction at having gotten her way, the nurse fusses over smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of the bedding for a few seconds before, her work done, walking towards the door. Reaching it, she comes to a stop and glances back at me, her expression as tender as it is serious. “There's still time, you know,” she states softly. “I know it's getting late, but there's still time for that Christmas miracle you're hoping so desperately for, the one we're... all... hoping for...”

“I...” Lacking both the words to reply and the confidence in being able to speak – even if I did know what to say – without my voice breaking, I simply nod and, as time ticks on and Christmas Day edges ever closer to midnight, dredge up a wan smile.

“Just you...” Her own voice breaking, the nurse smiles far too brightly in an attempt to disguise the awkward, undisputed emotion of the moment and gestures at the bed. “Just you hang in there. You'll see. It'll all work out in the end.”

“That's what I'm counting on,” I whisper, more to myself than for the nurse's benefit as, not wanting to appear too defeated, I sit up a little straighter and give her a small wave as she continues to hover, uncertainty as to whether it's okay to leave me or not written all over her face, in the doorway. “I... I'll be fine,” I add, far louder this time and with what I truly hope comes across as looking like a genuine smile. “So, please... Enjoy what's left of Christmas and... I'll see you tomorrow or whenever you're next rostered on.”

“As I swear you lot need me more than my own family do, you can rest assured that you'll definitely be seeing me tomorrow,” she replies, her gaze once again falling on the bed. “That... you'll... both... be seeing me tomorrow.”

“Well, we'll certainly be here,” I respond, going down the route of blunt honesty because, simply put, it's the truth. We... will... be here. Our reasons may differ from physical necessity to emotional need, but we'll be here because we either have to be or because we have nowhere else to go. “I mean, where else are we going to go?”

“Just... Keep the faith. Not only is there still time, but... even if it's not today there's always tomorrow.” Her expression that of a person who has said all that they wanted to say, the nurse flashes me a warm smile and, with one final glance at the bed, steps back from the doorway and disappears.

Biting back a sigh, I get to my feet and, after pushing the door three-quarters closed, pick up the plate containing the Christmas cake and carry it into the en-suite. Not having it in me to throw it directly into the rubbish bin even though I already know I'm never going to eat it, I place the plate carefully on the edge of the basin and, as the heavy scent of rum rises from it and reminds me yet again of my grandmother's Christmas cake and how I wasn't even allowed to eat it until I'd reached the ripe old age of twelve, just stare at it blankly.

It's Christmas.

I'm in Sydney, Australia, a city as beautiful as it is full of bad memories, and...

… I'm reduced to, just as the nurse effortlessly saw through, wishing for a miracle.

A...

… Christmas miracle. 

And I'm as disappointed in myself for daring to believe that it might actually happen as I am...

… Disappointed that it hasn't.

Not having quite reached the point of no return reality-wise, I know that I've only been deluding myself with foolish, baseless hope, but...

It's Christmas, and... I'd hoped that somehow, for some unknown reason that I couldn't successfully explain even if I wanted to, that today would have been the day.

It was silly of me, even delusional, and it pains me to acknowledge that I've got no-one to blame for my sense of almost obliterating disappointment other than myself, but...

… It is what it is.

Just as... everything... is what it is.

I can't change it, or fix it, or stop it from ever having happened in the first place. Nor can I wave a magic wand and just make it all go away.

I can't even move on as I'm stuck here as much as he is. The only real difference is that I'm here by choice. In fact, there's nowhere else on this entire planet that I'd rather be.

By his side.

Waiting.

Hoping.

Wishing.

Praying to a deity that I stopped believing in decades ago.

Patient.

Everyone, from the doctors and nurses who stream in and out of the room, to Jane and Benji all those thousands of miles away, tells me that I just have to be patient. That... the signs are all positive and it's a case of... when... not... if.

When... he wakes up.

Not... if... he wakes up.

It's just...

I don't know.

It's stupid.

I'm... stupid.

But a part of me, clearly a very stupid part of me, thought that today would be the day, that for some unknown reason he'd know it was Christmas Day and...

Never mind.

It was stupid of me. Wishful, clutching at straws thinking, and just plain stupid.

Glancing at my watch, I see that it's just gone past quarter to eleven and, all the time very industriously... not... thinking about how there's less than seventy-five minutes left of Christmas Day, walk out of the en-suite. Feeling both at a complete loss as to what to do with myself and as close to useless as I've ever felt, I lean against the wall by the door frame and, as I've done so many times over the past ten days, just gaze aimlessly around the room. 

As glorified hospital rooms go, there's no denying that it, just like everything this expensive, state-of-the-art facility has to offer, is near on faultless. About the size of the average hotel room, it's well appointed with everything from a comfortable armchair by the bed to a wide screen television complete with video-conferencing capabilities mounted on the wall. If it wasn't for the beige linen screen disguising the standard hospital equipment of drips and monitors and the like, you could be forgiven for thinking that you were actually in a four or five star hotel suite as even the bed isn't your usual, standard hospital bed. For starters, it's a little lower and instead of the normal chrome base it's actually made out of a smooth, dark wood. Yes, it still has wheels and can be moved around with ease, and, yes, there's still a remote control that also hides behind the linen screen that can raise it up and down, but at first glance your immediate thought, just as it is for the room in general, isn't to dismiss it as being just another hospital set up. Even the bedding, a dark, almost wolfish grey, fake fur blanket that materialised after I mentioned to one of the nurses that he likes soft, furry blankets, has nothing in common with hospitals the world over. The same, oddly enough, can be said for the six-foot, fibre-optic Christmas tree that appeared in the corner of the room five days ago now and which, as I stare it, continues to to merrily change its colour every few seconds or so. I didn't ask for it, and nor was I asked if I wanted it. For no other reason though than I know he'd like both it and the kindness behind it, I've let it remain here – constantly reminding me that it's Christmas – without comment.

What really sets the room apart from any hospital or, for that matter, even hotel I've ever been in though is the view. The facility, known only as the Cadigal Wellness Centre in deference to the indigenous population who called the land their own over two-hundred years ago, is situated in The Rocks, an old, exclusive and expensive part of Sydney that just happens to be directly by the harbour. The harbour,which, thanks to the architects clearly wanting to make the most of the incredible location they'd been gifted to work with, I have a close to unrestricted view of through the huge window that takes up most of the outside wall. To the right is Circular Quay, with its busy ferry terminal and never-ending collection of people, tourists and locals alike, streaming through it. Then, directly opposite is the iconic, not to mention downright peculiar looking, Sydney Opera House, and, just on the off chance those two things in themselves weren't enough to look at, to left is the Sydney Harbour Bridge. 

The view, especially when the sun is shining off the water, is amazing and, regardless of what time of night or day it is, there's always something to look at. Joggers. Buskers. People just going about their business. Cruise ships. Tourists looking lost or fussing over taking their obligatory happy snaps of all of Sydney's famous landmarks. Old couples feeding the seagulls. Harried looking men and women wearing business suits and nearly always with a cell phone pressed up tight against their ear. Art students gawking at the Museum of Contemporary Art. The ferries, both old and new, carrying their passengers in and out of the Quay. I can, most of the time keeping a running commentary on everything that I'm seeing even though I know he can't hear me, spend hours just watching the goings on through the window and, all things considered, know that I'm lucky to have access to it. 

While history, both in terms of how the recent mission turned out and the one all those years ago with Ambrose and Chimera, dictates that I'll never be a fan of Sydney, I can still – admittedly begrudgingly – appreciate its positives in terms of natural beauty and know that, location wise at least, things could certainly be a lot worse.

The facility, favoured by politicians, celebrities, the very rich, and those who just require utmost discretion, is the best money can buy and I can't fault their professionalism, staff, equipment, or attention to detail. Leaving no stone unturned for their clientele, I even have my own room two floors above this one to use as I see fit and, as they seem to think keeping me fed and hydrated is their responsibility as well, don't have to so much as step foot outside unless I want to. Having adapted to their casual, friendly – as if they've known you for years and can see no reason not to talk to you as though they would a relative or close friend – way of speaking, I both like the staff and have every confidence that he's in the best hands possible. Information, such as there is, is freely given and I know, despite the lateness of the hour, that if I were to hit the buzzer and ask for a doctor one would arrive in less than ten minutes. Hunley, knowing better than to stand in my way at the moment, has signed off on both my indefinite leave of absence and all of his ongoing medical bills. Jane and Benji, despite putting up a good argument as to why they should hop on the first plane to Sydney, eventually accepted my insistence that they stick to our original plans and are – hopefully – enjoying Christmas with their families. I'm uninjured, in no danger, and not only is my time entirely my own, but I'm also exactly where I want, if not actually... need, to be.

So, yeah. Things really could be a lot worse.

Yet...

Will's still in coma.

And while the doctors are always careful to reiterate that it's a case of... when, not... if, he wakes up, no-one knows when it's likely to happen. Nor do they know what he's going to be like. Just because all the signs, from clear brain scans to breathing on his own, are good doesn't mean that everything will remain... good... when – not if – he wakes up. There could be memory loss, either short term, long term, or possibly even permanent. The brain being a complex thing, he may even have to relearn how to do such basic tasks as walk or use cutlery. Perhaps most worrying of all, his personality may have changed and while he'll still be able to walk, talk, and remember everything about his life, he won't be... Will. He might have mood swings or suffer violent outbursts. He might even require twenty-four hour care.

Just...

… Nobody knows.

The doctors can warn me of the various scenarios, and I can both read up on them and try to get my head around the possibilities myself, but at the end of the day it's going to remain a mystery until his eyelids finally flicker open and he returns to us.

To...

… Me.

All I know for certain is that I'll be there. By his side. All the way.

Come what may.

Shifting slightly, I tear my gaze away from the Christmas tree and its constantly changing light show and, because I'm not quite ready for the inevitable yet, turn towards the world outside the window. While the ferries have stopped for the night and the Quay is quiet, both the Bridge and Opera House are still lit up in Christmas colours and seeing them makes it impossible for me to not think about New Year's Eve and how, given that they're all assuming we'll still be here then, brilliantly situated the clinic is for watching Sydney's famous fireworks from. The nurses in particular, although I think some of the doctors are too, only they don't want to show it, are looking forward to it and even those who aren't rostered on that night are planning to come in anyway. Just for the show. The show that, be it from my room upstairs or through this very window in Will's room, I've got a prime spot for.

Fireworks.

Celebration.

The welcoming of a new year and all the hopes and dreams it promises to bring.

I...

Not having much that I feel like celebrating, I don't want fireworks.

I don't want fireworks, or Christmas cake, or for the staff here to feel either admiration or sorrow for my obvious dedication to the comatose man lying in the bed, I...

I just want Will conscious, that's all.

I want him to open his eyes, and then we can go from there.

Wherever. Anywhere.

So long as we're together it'll be okay.

Just over three years ago now he was a curiosity to me. A field agent with skills that made my own look rusty who, for reasons he was keeping close to his chest, was willingly playing the sedentary role of Chief Analyst. Then, because I liked – in every way that counted – what I saw and am not one to take no for an answer, I got both his story out of him and, better still, him on to my team. Satisfied that I had him where I wanted him, I told myself that, curiosity sated and goal obtained, I could put him out of my mind and move on.

Well. That's what I tried telling myself, anyway.

The final question mark, the one I tried not to pay too much attention to because I didn't want to risk ruining either our friendship or team dynamic, was put to bed – in this case literally – some six months after he joined the team. And it was spectacular. Mutual, passionate, and far too good to simply accept as a 'once off'. I thought I had it all. The best team, as they already felt more like family to me than mere colleagues, I'd ever worked with, and an amazing 'friends-with-benefits' set up with the most attractive one.

We never spoke about it and, solely for reasons of not wanting to rock the boat, I never asked Will why he took it upon himself to start staying the night instead of returning to his own bed. Nor did I question my reasons for seeking him out and lingering in his company even when sex wasn't necessarily on the cards. He was just... there. Part of the furniture of my life.

Sure. I liked him. If pushed, I probably would have even confessed to liking him a lot. But that, as far as I was concerned at the time anyway, was as far as it went.

I liked him, and we had fun together.

No harm, no foul.

Then, four months or so into out unspoken arrangement, I ran into trouble. Or, depending on your point of view, it ran into me. Either way, trouble well and truly kicked my ass and between the bruising, swelling, fractures and, just for the cherry on top, the infection I caught while in the hospital, it left me a weak and useless mess.

Make that, a weak, useless and... crabby... mess that Will, both good naturedly and unwaveringly, bore the brunt off. Instead of, having done his duty in picking me up from the hospital, shoving me out of his car and being on his way, he helped me inside and, at first to my surprise and then to my annoyance, stayed. He didn't ask if I'd like help, and nor did he listen when I explained, both loudly and rudely, that I didn't need a 'fucking nursemaid' and that, as I'd be fine, he should just leave. No. He stayed exactly where he was and, after calmly stating that I was perfectly free to make him leave – while all the time safe in the knowledge that as I could barely stand for two minutes unaided there was no way in hell I was going to be capable of physically evicting him – if I had it in me, that, basically, was it. 

Will, who I'd been steadfastly refusing to see as anything other than a friend and convenient fuck, looked after me for four days and when, finally clear headed and more than a little sheepish over how I'd been treating him, I asked why he'd put himself out for me, he...

Well...

His reply was one that I've never forgotten. 

“Because you'd do the same for me.”

What I can also remember with crystal clear clarity is that, at the time, I thought it was, without a doubt, the most stupid thing I'd ever heard come out of Will's mouth.

Will, he...

He was intelligent. Not to mention easily the most logical person I'd ever met.

So, to put it plainly, I just didn't get it. I mean, we were friends with something good on the side. That was all. If Will wanted to waste his down time on making sure I made it to and from the bathroom without falling on my ass, then that was his problem, not mine. The same went for whether he saw something more in our... arrangement... than I did.

His problem. Not mine.

The thing is though, I now get it. Better late than never, and clearly I was a lot slower in reading the writing on the wall than Will was, but...

… I get it.

And, what's more, I've been 'getting it' for two years now.

I love him. Not fleetingly, or for how he makes my life better, but truly.

And madly. And deeply.

He is my everything. Compared to Will, the IMF barely registers. For him, and him alone, I would give up everything. My career.

My life.

And it's because of this that I'm not going anywhere. Not without him. Not now, and not ever.

However he comes back, I'll be here for him.

I'd say I can't imagine life without him, but of course I can. In fact, I can not only imagine it but, courtesy of the six months I spent last year tracking The Syndicate, I've already lived it. 

And...

Never again.

Been there, done that, didn't enjoy it, and don't plan on being in that position ever again.

I've both seen and done a lot in my time. And if there's one thing I know with absolute certainty it's what's worth fighting to the death for.

And that's Will. And our time together. And how just being with him, even like this, is enough to make me feel better than when we're apart.

Sighing, I push away from the wall and, because I now feel as though it's something I actually have to do for my own peace of mind, walk around the bed and take a seat in the armchair. Once I'm comfortable – which doesn't take long because I swear, given the hours I spend in it, the chair's padded seat has already taken on the impression of my ass – I reach for Will's left hand and gently take it in mine. And, just as I now take for granted, I'm immediately transported back to that moment with the British Prime Minister and how, when Will had picked up his hand to place it on the scanner, he'd commented on the warmth of his hand and how, despite the astonishingly risky gamble we were taking at the time, we'd looked over at each other and, for a split second, it was like we were the only two people in the room. No one else mattered. We shared a look, I mentally pinched myself that after six long months we were finally back together again, and...

That was then.

Now his hand is cold. Clammy, even. 

I don't like it, because it doesn't feel like the warm, pliant flesh I've come to rely on, but I take his hand in mine every time I sit here, because...

I can.

I hold his hand, and stare at his familiar face, and... wait.

Wait for the final, most important and possibly life changing of all, question mark to be answered. 

Not... if. When. And...

… How?

They... Everyone. The same collective 'everyone' – medical professionals, Luther, Jane, Benji, even bloody Hunley – that tells me that I just have to be patient also, both innocently and earnestly, tell me that...

He just looks as though he's sleeping.

And, not being blind, there's a small part of me that even agrees with them.

To a casual observer, he... does... look as though he's simply asleep.

The facility priding itself as much on both comfort and discretion as it does its field of experts and well trained staff, at first glance there's nothing really to suggest that the man in the bed isn't just having a nap. The room really does have more in common with a hotel than it does a hospital, both the décor and the furniture are modern and sleek, and there's a good chance the bedding is similar to something you've got at home. Keeping up the façade of normalcy being of utmost importance, the man's wearing coloured – which in this instance, in honour of the day, just happen to be blue and covered in white snow flakes – pyjamas and he's breathing on his own. His pale face is unblemished and there's nothing particularly out of the ordinary in that he has his left arm resting flat on top of the bedding while his right remains hidden under it.

Just a man having a sleep.

The drip feeding him essential nutrients through his right arm is hidden by both the bedding and the linen screen. Same goes for the tube removing waste. No medication litters the bedside table and, once more with keeping up appearances, all of his notes are also kept neatly behind the screen.

Asleep. That's all.

I get it. I do. I can totally see why everyone, usually with a gentle smile and, if they're here in the room, a light touch of understanding delivered to my shoulder or upper arm, believes he just looks like he's sleeping.

The thing is however, they don't know him like I do and, to me, he doesn't look as though he's just sleeping at all.

No.

To me, he looks...

… Unnatural.

Too still. Too posed. Too... neat.

During my worst moments, the ones that strike when I'm over tired or have spent too long fixating on the ever-lurking sense of doubt and fear about what our future holds, I look at him and see...

… An open casket. 

Still. Posed. Manipulated into position.

Dead.

I know how Will sleeps. And it's not like this. He sleeps on his side. Left or right. If he has a preference I've never been able to work it out. Same goes for the side of the bed. If I'm already there he just gets in the other side and, once everything – be it sex, reading, or a conversation – is out of the way, makes himself comfortable. On his side. Be it with his back pressed up against my side or even draped around me, he always sleeps on his side. He's also a restless sleeper. Whereas I frequently wake up in the very same position I closed my eyes in, Will swaps sides and, I swear, burrows all night and hardly ever wakes up on the same spot of the mattress he went to sleep on.

He also, if the blanket reaches his high standards of softness, pulls the bedding up to his chin and, if it's cold enough, will even go so far as to pull it fully over his head.

So...

No.

To me, he doesn't just look like he's sleeping at all.

Not on his back. Not with the bedding tucked in tightly and the sheet folded down neatly over the blanket. Not this... still.

Again, to me it's like the coldness of his hand. 

Unnatural...

… And terrifying.

Just as the accident that put him here is terrifying in its own way.

Simple. Blameless. Could have happened to anyone. Could have easily been worse and, just as easily, it could have even been a non event. 

He could have died.

Conversely, he also could have just picked himself up and, with a few bruises to both his body and ego, walked away.

An inch to the left or to the right... If the height had been any greater... If he'd been left lying there any longer...

If it hadn't been raining.

If I'd taken that position for myself.

If he'd been wearing shoes with better soles.

If the worker who found him hadn't been sneaking in a surreptitious cigarette break both when and where he shouldn't have.

Just...

… One of those things.

An accident.

No one to blame or seek my revenge on.

It wasn't personal. Or targeted. And no one caused it.

He just fell.

Shipping containers, especially those stacked three high and slippery with rain, not being the greatest things to move about on at the best of times, he just misjudged his step or twisted his ankle, and...

… Fell.

Down on to the dirty, oil stained concrete below. Rain having well and truly washed any blood away by the time the forensic examiners got there, no one can say if he hit his head on the side of the container as he went down, or whether it was just how he landed on the ground that did it. Either way, he hit his head on... something... and it knocked him out big time. And, too focussed on completing our mission of both photographing and identifying the men responsible for ensuring our tracked shipment of stolen US Military assault rifles made it through Sydney's docks without incident, I simply put his radio silence down to the rain probably having dislodged his ear piece.

Too busy doing both my thing and, as the rain dripped into my eyes and down my collar, maligning Sydney for yet again living up to my already low expectations of it, I never spared Will a second thought. He had his role to play and, just as he always did, he'd be doing it. Not having contact with him, while mildly annoying, was far from the end of the world. We'd debrief, once we were back in the car and out of the Godforsaken rain, afterwards anyway and...

… I had no idea.

No idea whatsoever.

While I was taking my photographs of the men in their hard hats and with their clipboards and sending them back to Benji in D.C. to identify, Will was lying, face first and unconscious in a rapidly spreading puddle of water. Although it was shallow, he still could have drowned in it.

And...

… While it doesn't bear thinking about, what's done is done.

The container holding the weapons having been effortlessly loaded onto the cargo ship bound for the Middle East and the cashed up terrorists waiting for it, I was putting my camera back in to my bag and hoping that Will was already on his way back to the car when the commotion started. Men, not near the ship but further back, alarmingly close to the stack of containers Will had been on, actually, started running around and yelling.

I wanted to think nothing of it, to just do as we'd planned if something unusual came up and get the hell out of there.

But...

It all seemed to be happening in the area I'd sent Will to.

Then a white utility vehicle came to a stop and a man wearing a white hard hat emblazoned with an instantly recognisable symbol of a red cross on the front of it climbed out and disappeared behind the stack of containers.

A first aid officer.

Someone was injured and in need of assistance.

I'd had no contact with Will for something like a quarter of an hour.

Although it's not something I do very often, I panicked. 

I panicked and, our mission of remaining under the Australian Government's radar disintegrating into a pile of fine dust, I ran.

I ran to the centre of the activity, and I saw him. Surrounded by dock workers and on his back by now, but non responsive. Breathing, but not moving.

The same, really, as he is now. 

Breathing on his own, but otherwise non responsive.

Alive, just not... living.

Needless to say, I lost it. And the dock workers, already put out by the presence of an unknown unconscious man in their midst, pretty much lost it right back at me. It wasn't pleasant. In fact it was downright messy and, in hindsight, I let emotion trample all over both diplomacy and my usually more than adequate bullshitting skills. I could have handled it better, but I didn't. I let my concern for Will get in the way of everything else.

And...

… I'd do it again.

It may not have been very effective, but it was instinctive and even now the thought of just calmly standing back doesn't sit right with me at all. I... had to be in the thick of things. I had to at least... feel... as though I was doing something for him.

In the end they had to restrain me and, despite my ranting and pleading, while Will was carted off in one direction in an ambulance, I was carted off in another in the back of a police car. This, being seperated from him when I didn't know what was going on, only set me off even worse and I honestly suspect they were going to dump me at the closest psych facility in favour of taking me back to the station if the Sergeant hadn't picked up his phone and found himself speaking directly to the Secretary of the Impossible Mission Force. Thanks to – God bless him – Benji's almost obsessive need to always know what was going on, he'd been still listing in on the comm system while I was putting on my little performance of irrational behaviour at the docks and he'd notified Hunley. Who, in turn, had immediately got on the phone to his closest equivalent here in Australia and who, yet again in turn, had patched him directly through to the Sergeant driving me along in his police car.

The sergeant, or I suspect for that matter, Hunley either, wasn't happy with the call, but both the chain of command and international cooperation and diplomacy being a marvellous thing, he executed an abrupt, tyre squealing U-turn on the spot and, without so much as a word of explanation, drove me to the hospital that the ambulance had taken Will to.

The rest of the day is a blur. Doctors. Specialists. Worrying descriptions like... 'swelling on the brain'. Even more worrying words like... 'coma'. Then... less worrying information like... 'no physical injuries', 'clear brain scan', and, 'breathing unaided'. Phone calls. Benji. Jane. Hunley. Bad news travelling fast, even Luther. The hideous sight of Will in the I.C.U.. Monitors, and tubes, and heavy, clunky looking equipment. Staff everywhere. No definite answers. Then...

When. Not... if.

Promising signs.

'You just need to be patient.'

Hunley pulling strings that I never would have expected him to, once the trauma team were satisfied with Will's condition another ambulance came along and, this time with me by his side, transferred him here, to the Cadigal Wellness Clinic.

Where, ten days on, he still is.

Where... we both still are.

Alive.

But certainly not living.

I go through the expected motions of the living, but it's only by rote, not intention. I shower twice a day. Both morning and night, and mainly because it gives me something to do. I get up early and go for a run. Either across the Bridge and back, or around the Opera House and really give myself a workout by running up and down all the steps that surround it. I run out of habit, because, again, it gives me something to do, and also because it also gives the nurses time to get Will ready for the day. Having accepted that I'm his lover and, so it seems, personal shadow, they'd let me help if I wanted to. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me to learn that they're actually wondering why it is I haven't put my hand up to assist with either the physio to keep his limbs from locking or the even simpler act of rubbing moisturiser into his skin to stop it drying out.

I could help.

Of course I could.

It not being as though I'm unfamiliar with his body, I probably... should... help. 

He's my lover, and there's not a single thing I wouldn't do for him, but...

It's unbecoming of me, I know that, but I don't want to. Not until all hope has gone and the... when... has been firmly replaced by the... if. Then... Of course. I'll make the arrangements to have him transported back to the States and I'll take over in every way that I can. Changing. Bathing. Shaving. Everything. The whole nine yards.

Until that day, the one that I can't even bring myself to think about in detail, comes though, I'll hold back and play the coward's card for all that it's worth.

I...

I know that it's only Will. That it's... still... Will, and that I'm essentially being as silly as I am irrational.

But...

Given that I already know that his hand is cold and that I don't like the feel of it, what would the rest of his body be like? His body that I know to be warm, and pliant, and both soft and hard in all the right places. His body that I've always known to react to my touch and which I've always derived so much pleasure from. Not solely in a sexual sense, either. Just having him there. Next to me. A shoulder against mine on a long flight. Warm flesh to rest my hand on throughout the night.

Just as I know what he looks like sleeping, I know what Will... feels... like.

And it's not like this.

So...

… I do nothing.

I run while the nurses tend to him and, when they've finished and I've both showered and forced myself to eat something even though I never seem to have any appetite these days, I take up my sentry like position in his room. I sit by the bed, like I am now, and hold his hand, the only part of his body I can reluctantly bring myself to touch, and I... wait. Or I stand by the window and try to chase away the silence in the room by aimlessly prattling on about what I can can see of the world outside. What I don't do is read the paper out loud to him or turn on the television in order to watch the news. And the reason I don't do this is because, if there's any chance, any chance of all of there being a part of him that's listening to me, I want him to come back as opposed to subconsciously taking in all of the world's bad news and deciding that he's simply better off remaining as far away from it as he can possibly get. Perhaps it's yet another example of irrational behaviour on my part, but I don't care. I tell him that I love and need him, and I babble on about things of no consequence, and I both eat and drink what the kind hearted nurses put in front of me, and that, pretty much, is my day. I listen to the doctors when they pass by, make small talk with the nurses, try to feign some semblance of life during the phone calls that come, regular as clock work, from Jane and Benji, and...

I wait.

And try desperately to hope for the best.

A sound, highly likely to be missed by most but which, to my sensitive hearing, rings out across the room as clear as a bell, reaching my ears, I sit up a little straighter and, as I know what's about to come next, can't help but smile.

Change of shift.

The night watchman.

Or, in this case, the... night watch...

… Feline.

Black and white, and tiny looking even though the nurses assure me she's three years old and fully grown, the cat, named Roxy with great imagination as she was found around The Rocks as a kitten, is as much a part of the Clinic's furniture as the pretentious looking water feature in the foyer is. She's loved, seemingly by all, has, with the exception of the operating theatres and sterile areas, the run of the place and, as is the wont of cats the world over, she does whatever she wants, whenever she wants to do it.

And the very first time I met her, nine nights ago now, I lost it in a way that wasn't all that dissimilar to how I lost it at the docks. Granted, I was over tired, worried to the point of feeling both curiously empty and physically ill at the same time, and, the doctors wanting to be as sure as they could possibly be about Will's condition, there was a lot more ominous looking – most of which was attached to him at some point or another – equipment in his room than there is now. Things, to put it in plain, non emotive language, weren't good. They weren't good at all.

And, in the middle of all of this, a cat strolled into the room and, without so much as glancing at anyone, jumped neatly onto the bed and sat on Will's chest.

And, jumping to hare-brained conclusions in a way I've never done before, instead of seeing a cat sitting on Will and calmly staring at him, I saw the feline equivalent of the Grim fucking Reaper. Benji, who's easily amused at the best of times, having once made a point of going on and on about some story he'd read about a cat living in a nursing home somewhere who always seemed to know when one of the elderly residents was going to pass away as it would go into their room and stay there, I looked at the cat and saw the spectre of looming death.

You know. As you do.

So...

...I lost it. The plot. Entirely. I lost the plot entirely and, effortlessly taking on the role of drama queen, stacked on a performance about getting it – the feline harbinger of doom – the fuck out of Will's room.

There was talk, not that I blame them, of sedating me. 

Thankfully, one of the nurses, a large woman with the sort of take-no-prisoners demeanour about her that I always respect, forcefully took me aside and explained that, for one, I was behaving like a dick, and secondly, they'd come to realise over the three years that she'd been with them that the cat actively avoided anyone who just happened to be near death. In fact, if she'd chosen to sleep with Will it was actually a good sign as it meant she thought he'd be sticking around.

The nurse thought that the cat choosing Will was as promising as the clearest of brain scans.

The cat – apparently – thought he was a good bet because he wasn't going anywhere soon.

And I thought, once, that is, I'd picked myself up out of the mental rabbit hole I'd momentarily disappeared down and raised the white flag of defeat, just...

… Whatever.

Of course it was perfectly fine for the cat to take over Will's bed.

In fact, given that I'm fairly confident Will hasn't met a cat he didn't like or try to befriend, just...

… Why not?

Truth be told, if he was aware of it he'd like it anyway, so...

Again. Whatever.

And that was that.

I calmed down, allowed the nurse to... introduce... me to Roxy, and, again, that was pretty much that. Roxy had both staked her claim and, as is the feline way, won. She'd found her bed for the next however many nights, I'd been put back in my place, and the earth kept on spinning. Through an unspoken – which, well, it would be given that one of the participants is a cat – agreement, we now operate in predetermined, however quite fluid shifts. I take both the day and evening shifts, and she has the night. Usually some time between eleven and midnight she meanders into the room and, seeing my cue to leave, I wait until she's settled somewhere on the bed before giving Will a goodnight kiss on the cheek and making my way upstairs. 

As with so many things at the moment, there's no real logic to it, but nor do I see any reason to fight it. Roxy has to sleep somewhere. I, despite basically doing nothing but sit on my ass all day, need to sleep. Will likes cats.

Ergo...

… Whatever.

It works. Jane thinks it's hysterical. Luther thinks I'm off my rocker. And, the article he once read about the cat in the nursing home having clearly done a real number on him, Benji is still dubious about Roxy's motives and is probably just waiting for the phone call to tell him that she's sat on Will's face and suffocated him.

Glancing at my watch, I note that midnight has come and gone and, as is our routine, hold my hand out for Roxy to give it a quick sniff before she moves on to rubbing around my legs for a few seconds. “You're late,” I murmur. “Don't tell me, let me guess. The Christmas party in room twenty-two was just too good to leave...”

Neither my greeting nor my – pointless – attempt at sarcasm having any impact on her, Roxy merely observes me through her large golden eyes for a couple of seconds before effectively dismissing me with a flick of her tail and jumping onto the bed. She then kneads the blanket and purrs happily to herself for what feels like minutes and, once this particular little ritual is out of the way, climbs daintily onto Will's legs and curls up into a tight little ball just above his knees. The life of a spoiled cat clearly being an exhausting one, she gives every indication of being dead to the world from the moment her eyes close and I know, just as I have every other night, that I should now really be on my way. 

Christmas Day has been and gone. Roxy's here. I have a bed waiting for me upstairs and another day of the same staring me in the face, yet...

… I don't want to go.

Not yet.

And not for any particular or pressing reason.

Nothing's changed. Nor is anything likely to. Will hasn't moved or given me any reason to feel more hopeful than I did an hour ago. Christmas is over. My silly delusion of a Christmas miracle is history.

And yet, I still want to stay.

At least for a little while longer.

Relaxing back in my seat, I entwine my fingers around Will's and make a very deliberate effort not to think about anything. Not a damn thing, in fact. Not what the future may hold. Not the plans I'd originally had to make this a Christmas to remember. Not Will's excitement, although he never came out and said it in as many words I could still see it, at finally getting to go to Australia, one of the few places in the world he'd never been to and was curious about. Not the vague thoughts I'd had about asking Hunley for a few extra days here so we could play the unfamiliar game of just being tourists for a change. Not the...

… Gnawing, relentless fear I have that things might never be the same.

Just...

Nothing.

I think of absolutely nothing other than the coldness of Will's hand and how I never, ever want to let it go.

And time, as it always does, passes.

Roxy, no doubt chasing mice in her dreams, twitches in her sleep, and when the hand in mine also twitches my immediate thought is that I too have to be dreaming.

No...

… It can't be.

Sitting up, I rub my free hand over my eyes and, peering blearily at my watch, read that over two hours have slipped by since Roxy arrived in the room. This, in turn, tells me that I'm now officially over tired as I've started imagining things and that the time has definitely come to retire to my own bed for what's left of the night.

Reluctantly pulling my hand free of Will's, I place it gently back down on top of the blanket and am in the process of standing up when it happens.

Will's eyes slowly blink open and, still not entirely convinced that I'm not simply dreaming, I both suck my breath in and hold it.

Protocol. Everything I've read. The doctors and their warnings. Memory loss. Confusion. Give him time. Don't crowd him or prompt him. Let him do things in his own time. Immediately hit the buzzer for the nurses' station. Don't hesitate. Remember, he needs professional assistance.

The buzzer...

Hit it.

Dream or not, pick up the buzzer and press it. 

Only...

I don't. I can't.

All I can do is hold my breath and stare down at Will as his dull blue eyes slowly blink the reality he's woken up to into focus.

“Ethan?”

It's his voice. Soft and hoarse, but still Will's.

And he recognises me.

Oh God...

… He recognises me!

The need to start breathing again suddenly hitting me with the force of a wrecking ball, I exhale in a rush and, in a voice almost as hoarse as Will's, murmur the first thing that comes into my scrambled mind, “Hey there...”

“Hey there,” Will echoes, slowly turning his head on the pillow so as to better face me. “You look awful.”

“Thanks. You look like death warmed up yourself, if you must know,” I reply, once again picking his hand up in mine and squeezing it tightly as it finally starts to dawn on me that, yes, this is really happening. He really is awake and it really does seem, on first impressions anyway, that his memory is intact. That...

… We're finally on the fresh, new page of the next chapter.

“Mmm... Thanks, yourself.” A slight frown crossing Will's face as he struggles to both keep me in focus and his eyes open, he sighs and shifts his head back on to the centre of the pillow. “Please tell me there's a good reason for why my legs feel so heavy,” he murmurs, finding the strength from somewhere to grip my hand. “If there's something wrong...”

“There's nothing wrong with your spine or legs,” I interrupt, giving him a reassuring smile as, making a point of not thinking about either the buzzer or how I should be pressing it, I glance down at his legs. “In fact, I suspect the explanation is one you'll actually like.”

“Try me,” he replies, tightening his hold on my hand as an expression of uncertainty flashes over his face. “Ethan, please... I need you to be honest with me.”

“Your legs feel heavy because you have a cat sleeping on your thighs,” I state matter-of-factly as my smile broadens into a grin. Yes. I know I need to hit the buzzer. And I will. In a minute or two. Once Will is satisfied that there's nothing wrong with his legs and...

… He knows what I need him to know.

“Oh.” His eyes widening almost comically, Will gazes up at me with obvious, if not even... mounting... confusion. “I... do?”

I nod. “You do.” Without letting up my grip on his hand, I use my other arm to both very slowly and very gently raise his shoulders just far enough up from the bed so that he can see Roxy for himself. “See? Not exactly being known for my imagination, it's not really the sort of thing I'd make up.”

“That...” 

“Isn't what you were expecting, huh?”

“Not even close,” Will murmurs as, visibly tiring before my eyes, he puts up no protest as I settle him back down on the mattress. “But I like it.”

“Thought you would.” Still smiling, I lean forward and plant a soft kiss on his forehead. “Now, while I never thought I'd find myself having to say this to you...” I swallow hard and this time deliver a kiss to his cheek. “You're late.”

“Late?” he repeats, looking up at me as expectantly as he can given that he's fighting a hard battle to keep his eyes open. “For what?”

“For Christmas, “ I reply, using my free hand to stroke the back of my fingers along the curve of his cheek and jawline. “You... You're late for Christmas Day.”

“But...”

“And before you say Christmas Day is over a week away, have I got some news for you.”

“Oh...”

“You've missed it.”

“By much?”

“Christmas Day ended a couple of hours ago,” I state, “and, as I was expecting you for Christmas, I'm here to tell you that you're late.”

“We still in Sydney?” Will queries in a voice barely above that of a whisper.

“Well, we are, as it happens. But what's that got to do...”

“Australia is south of the equator. Which means, although I might have missed it here in Sydney, it's still actually Christmas Day in a lot of other places. So...”

“What you're telling me is that you're not late at all,” I reply just a tad breathlessly as the relief I'm feeling at how well all of this is going washes over me in waves. He's awake. He knows me. He knows... things... and is still, even weak and groggy like this, very much Will.

My... Will.

And to say I feel like the luckiest man alive doesn't even come close to covering it.

“Delayed. Not late, per se...” Throwing everything he's got into keeping his eyes open, Will gazes up at me for a few seconds before his eyelids droop shut and I know the time has come to both hit the buzzer and let the professionals take over. “I... I'm sorry. I didn't get you a present...”

“Actually...” My breath catching in my throat, I lean over Will and once again plant a soft, lingering kiss on his forehead. “I think you'll find you've just given me the best Christmas gift of all...”

~ end ~


End file.
